


and so, there you were (painted red)

by clowning



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Apologies, F/F, and a lot of observation, on Miranda's part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clowning/pseuds/clowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda digs deeper than what is at face value. (And views what is at face value with a new perspective.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so, there you were (painted red)

Even when viewed through security feed channeled to her console, Jack looks sickly. The red light that tints the sub-deck does nothing to help the convict's case, casting shadows that reveal the contours of her ribs, and the tired look about her eyes.

Miranda knows otherwise, though the admittance kickstarts an odd feeling, somewhere around her diaphragm. She's known otherwise since the very second Jack was brought out of cryo, and her rough-looking hands tore off her restraints.

She was bathed in white fluorescent light then. Then she could only see the pinkish tips of Subject Zero's nose and ears. Her eyes were bloodshot and angry, and, had Miranda not allowed herself that second too long, she would have missed the fear layered underneath.

\---

When Jack is back in her version of a cabin, doused in red once more, Miranda sees the wiry muscle that shifts under tattooed skin, and she thinks back to their confrontation that would have escalated, had it not been for Shepard and her timing.

Even under white fluorescent once more, she can still see the barely-leashed power under her skin. She can see how much Jack is like a wild varren, thin but brutal.

It's a slow thing (and its crushing her efficiency), but 'mistake' no longer feels precise, and it's starting to make her tongue feel sour and her chest like she was thrown into cold water, so she begins the search for something new.

(And perhaps the ability to swallow her pride and apologize.)

\---  
Jack's proud jawline continues to work as they exit the Teltin facility, and Miranda can see Jack fidgeting, picking at her thumbnail. Her eyes seem glazed over and far away as they walk, stepping over rubble and glass.

A ghost of the same feeling has settled over the Cerberus operative. Reviewing the disturbed past of Jack had been, in all honesty, draining. Emotionally and otherwise. She's glad when she settles into the seat of the shuttle, but she watches Jack fiddle with the cap on the detonator, and her stomach aches and twists.

The explosion rattles the frame of the shuttle, and Jack turns her head back in the direction of the now decimated building. Miranda scans the surgical scar along the base of Jack's skull, and the steadier look in her brown eyes. Her chest feels painful and cold as she looks back over the crooked incision, but she stays quiet, and tries to think about other things.

(She thinks about Jack's brown eyes, and what it must be to be a prisoner in ways that are permanent.)

\---

A new aspect to consider presents itself when Jack is in the center of her screen again, this time sitting on the floor, her legs crossed. Resting on her legs is what looks like a very old paper sketchbook, and in between her inked fingers, a pen. She would call it barbaric, but it suits Jack in a way that's difficult to put her finger on, so she decides to let it be.

Miranda pulls her attention away from the sketch paper, and to bumps of Jack's spine, down to the dimples at her lower back. Guilt gnaws at her ribs, but Miranda shakes it away, bringing her attention back to watching Jack work away at the paper.

Something scratches at the back of Miranda's head, makes her want to keep watching.

\---

It's late, and most of the crew has fallen back to the barracks when Miranda leaves for Jack's hiding place in engineering. She rises from her seat, making her way to the elevator, and specifying the engineering deck.

Her fingers curl, open then closed, and she keeps her gaze straight ahead, determined. She is going to settle what remains of their fight (and hopefully, the gnawing at her bones.)

The elevator doors open and Miranda makes her way down the corridor. Her steps seem too loud amongst the barely noticeable hum of the engines, but she presses forward, coming to the first set of stairs.

Miranda takes a breath and steadies herself. (Why was she unsteady in the first place?) 

She takes the first step and cringes at how loudly her heels clang against the metal, but she takes the next and another, occasionally looking down to check her step in the dark. When she comes around the corner, Jack is already sitting up, eyes trained on her.

"The fuck do you want?"

Miranda opens her mouth to retort, but closes it quickly, her perfect clacking together. She reminds herself that she has a reason to be here, not to fall into an argument with Jack. Miranda squares her shoulders and lifts her chin.

"I'm here to... apologize. To you." Miranda inwardly cringes at how shaky her voice was, but she got it out, and that has to count towards something. Jack remains silent, but Miranda can see the shine of suspicion there in her eyes and in the tensed hunch of her heavily-inked torso. Miranda takes another step forward, and Jack's hands ball up into bony fists.

(She really should eat more, shouldn't she?)

"Relax," Miranda says quietly. "I just want to talk. I... Shouldn't have said what I did."

Jack scoffs in that rough way of hers, giving her a once-over, scanning the room behind her, then looking back at the operative.

"Shit," she mutters. "I didn't think it was possible for the Cerberus bitch to be wrong."

Miranda sighs, walking softly to the foot of Jack's cot, tentatively taking a seat, turning herself to face the ex-convict. She takes note of the way Jack's legs pull back and tense, turning herself around to sit on the side of the cot, scooting a little closer. Her chest aches and twists again, and this time she knows why, and she knows what she wants to do.

Miranda searches Jack's brown eyes with her own blue ones. "Jack. Let me apologize?"

She sees apprehension there, but Jack relents, deciding to hear what she has to say. Jack's shoulders relax and her legs do the same, sliding forward to rest wholly on the cot, brushing by Miranda's hip.

"Doesn't matter." 

Jack's dismissal is quick and sharp as she turns her head away, looking anywhere but at Miranda. 

All at once, Miranda takes in the lone, red light casting eerie shadows over crates and corners, and the harsh curves of Jack's cheek and collarbones. She sees the jagged but short scar that rests above Jack's full lips, and the smooth bridge of her nose. Her tattoos are stark against her red-white skin, reminding Miranda of a chiaroscuro masterpiece.

It's an epiphany, the way the realization hits Miranda like a tidal wave; Jack is beautiful. 

Jack is so, so beautiful, it hurts.

Miranda's response is a little late, but strong enough to regain Jack's attention.

"It does matter."

Placing her hand on Jack's knee and sliding upward, Miranda leans forward, slowly reaching up to hold the smaller woman's face, her fingers reaching back to trace the ends of the scar at the back of a tattooed neck.

The contact is electric. Jack shudders and it urges Miranda to move closer, her hip now in line with Jack's, their faces only inches apart. Miranda holds Jack like she's precious and golden; she searches brown eyes, eyebrows raised in question. She meets no opposition.

Miranda closes the gap between them; her lips press against the convict's, and her chest twists in an all-new, but not unwelcome way that leaves pins pricking at her insides. She pulls away, only for a brief moment to find a better angle, her lips coming back to tangle themselves with Jack's, pushing and pulling in tandem with the others'.

The two separate, only by mere inches, for air. Miranda slouches forward, relaxed, lips brushing by Jack's chin. In that moment, Jack lets out a shuddering sigh that ghosts over the operative's ear, sending a shiver through her system.

Jack pulls Miranda closer, hands warm through the leather of the woman's suit. She buries her face in the crook of Miranda's neck, muffling her voice. "Some kind of apology, cheerleader."

"I try." Miranda says with a chuckle.

\---  
Gradually, Jack spends more and more time out of her corner, and on the futon in Miranda's quarters, sketch pad in hand. 

The two work side by side in comfortable silence.

(Though, most of the time, insults are tossed that crack grins.)

**Author's Note:**

> I happen to like the idea of something like this between the two in canon, even without the kissing and romantic feelings


End file.
